[Canibus]   Doctor ‘C’... //   I plan to build myself a facility before I’m forty //   A Molecular Archeo-genetic Laboratory //   That can analyze complex poetry data for me //   Even if it was recorded poorly, How extraordinary //   I frog-leap over awkward beats //   Then I separate rappers by their Carbon 14’s //   To determine the age of anything that remains //   Regardless of how the outside surface has changed //   I’ll put a curse on your name, bombard your brain //   With gamma X-rays until you burst into flames //   With my scientifically quantifiable megalo-maniacal viable style //   It’s like trying to ride a bull //   Let’s have a dictionary duel after school //   Check me into a nice Cedars Sinai room //   So I can get sick as the flu, spitting the truth //   If you ain’t got this album you’re missing the proof //   Prepare for your doom, my nuclear rocket plumes //   Glow against the pale background of the moon //   Toxic fumes spoil complete stocks of fruits and foods //   Burning flammable boxes of booze //   Got in the groove even though I’m not in the mood //   Motherfucker you didn’t win because I can’t lose //   Give the fans a chance to choose? Fuck you //   Who’s the illest? Who’s it really up to? //   Rapid fire, you better run for the pacifier //   Tie you up and drag you in the saliva quagmire //   ‘Til your oxygen expires and your lungs dry up //   Cause you said ‘Bis ain’t dope, you’re a damn liar //   Assassin for hire over beats by Payas, flow like the Tigris //   Euphrates with the eye of the tiger in my iris //   Canibus is a fighter, motherfucker my great grandfather was Irish //   Let’s roll the dices, I’ll break you like young Tyson //   Give me the Mic man, I don’t need no hype men //   Put a thousand on me, put one on him //   I’ll tear off his limbs, throw him in and tell him to swim //   Yo, I’ll soak that sugar coated shit in soy sauce //   Tell the FCC boss, ‘Turn that noise off,’ //   Call Detroit’s Mafia boss, tell him //   ‘Yo, I’ve got a job for you, I want you to bust his balls //   Drop him off by Niagara Falls //   Write my name on a banana and put the banana between his jaws //   Nobody disrespects lyrical law //   I’m the best there ever is and the best there ever was //   Train like a grunt face down in the mud //   With blood, sweat and tears sucking it up //   Yo, you wonder where I am right now //   I’m probably somewhere on the microphone fucking it up //   Dead or alive Canibus will live through the rhyme //   To be the illest on the Mic is a mission of mine //   Spitting divine, you can’t get it twisted this time //   Vocal with a mirror to make sure my lips is in line //   Doctor C, Ph.D., graduated from UMG //   Bright as the LCD display on a new MP //   Prototype of a true emcee //   With 3-D topography maps you can’t see //   The butcher on Broad Street wrapping CD’s //   In butcher paper, doing artwork with Sharpies //   If you don’t like the quality then talk to me //   What the fuck you on a website for you creep? //   Punching the keys, remember that sound //   That’s exactly what it sounds like when I’m punching your teeth //   Kick a rap bitch! If you’ve got the gumption to speak //   Stand next to me I might put a lump in your meat //   Dis you and your man, double the beef //   To tell you the truth I thought your rebuttal was weak //   ‘Round the Outside’ blah blah, etc., etc. //   The body of my literature is bigger than South America //   Nigga look, this is all I’ve got to say //   Suck my P-H-D-I-C-K! //